


to cut all the flowers

by BrenanaBread



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette, F/M, I don't know how slow something has to be in order to be a slowburn, No miraculous AU, Slow Burn, Technology AU, adrienette - Freeform, but sometimes an adrinette in the rain sequence just pries its way in there, delirium inspired au, idk i read that book 9 years ago but maybe there are subconscious influences??, im as flabbergasted as you are, im sure there are more influences but those are the most obvious, ladrien, love alarm inspired au, maybe the giver ??? if you squint??, or at least I think ?, this was really meant to just be strictly ladrien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrenanaBread/pseuds/BrenanaBread
Summary: Gabriel Agreste is world-renowned for creating a device calledAkumato control an individual’s emotions. Ladybug is an anonymous artist who has grown famous for her political pieces againstAkuma. She never reveals anything about herself in her captions, but her art resonates with many on a personal level. Her artwork gains enough notoriety to catch the attention of Adrien Agreste, heir to theAkumaempire. Captivated by her work, Adrien reaches out to her under the guise of advancing the business, but even he can tell it has more to do with the way she's able to make him feel emotions he's not supposed to have.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe
Comments: 18
Kudos: 31





	to cut all the flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a gift to Pi to celebrate her birthday! She's one of the kindest and most incredible people I've had the pleasure of knowing, and I hope she has a wonderful day <3 
> 
> Check her out on tumblr @the-picayune to discover the most talented individual you'll ever meet!

Marinette’s fingers are tired when she finally posts the photo. It isn’t her best—the lines are sketchy and her composition is imbalanced—but it gets the idea across. A black-and-white drawing of a shapeless being, draped in a dark cloak, wispy and ominous. Around its neck is a chain with the word  _ Akuma _ etched onto its front in sprawling script. The being reaches out—begging the viewer for help, for love, for  _ anything _ —as it struggles against the chain, locking it into the fist of a detached arm, strangling it. The forearm faces the viewer, strong and unyielding, with a distinct butterfly pattern in its center, puckered and discolored as any other scar. 

Truthfully, she doesn’t care too much about the artwork today. It’s all about the caption.

_ myladybug: Will we accept the demonization of our emotions? The theft of our humanity?  _ _   
_ _ With this fundraiser, Akuma tries to corrupt our last hope. They plan to destroy our only freedoms left. Will you sit idly as they take our compassion, our intimacy, our affection, our love? Or will you fight for what is yours? _

With only hours before the event, she knows  _ Akuma _ will succeed. No amount of time and following can stop them. But she’s swaying public opinion. As her numbers rise, so does her media coverage, her petition signatures, the movement’s legitimacy. The government will never stop  _ Akuma _ and so long as the business succeeds, the Agrestes will never slow their conquest. But she can hurt them. With a little bad press, she can prevent companies from investing, promise a war if they continue their support. She hopes that will be enough.

With one last press of her keyboard, the post is live.

She waits.

* * *

It’s about an hour later when she checks her phone again. She pays little mind to the likes and comments and DMs flooding her account, it’s too overwhelming to comprehend. There are admirations and righteous agreements—praises for her artistic talent and bravery, but in equal fervor there is derision and disdain. She’s called naïve and idealistic, someone who doesn’t understand the toll of rampant emotions plaguing society, someone too young to know the horrors of love gone too far.

When she first started the account, she wanted to scream back at them. How dare they assume she was too young to value her own humanity, how dare they assume her life had never been touched by loss or heartache. To think they can decide what is necessary for her, to think she’s incapable of deciding what is best for herself. 

To be infantilized is to be stripped of her own agency. And she wouldn’t stand for any of it.

She doubled her efforts, posting more and more artwork, analyzing the  _ Akuma _ company like it was her dissertation, studying society’s relationship with emotions and the push to distance humankind from their effects. A steady posting schedule, strategic hashtags, and some viral posts later, she had amassed a larger audience than she could have ever imagined. 

There were, of course, many who followed and commented only to spam her with criticism and advertisements—her block list wasn’t small. There were some who claimed to be unbiased, played “devil’s advocate” and masqueraded as willing to engage in free discussion and debate. Too quickly, she discovered the falsity of those statements as their minds were made up long before they commented on her posts and no amount of reason or logic could persuade them. She would site studies and they would site companies. She would recall philosophical texts and appeal to the social nature of humans and they would quote millionaires and those still reeling from grief. She doesn’t engage with them anymore.

Much nicer but just as uncomfortable were those who thought she could do no wrong. They flooded her posts with hearts and sparkles, inundated her DMs with praises and expectations she could not possibly live up to. Immensely grateful for their support, Marinette still lived in fear of disappointing them—of not being able to enact change, of founding a floundering movement, of letting the corporations profiting off of pain and anxiety continue to exploit the most vulnerable members of society unhindered. 

If her own ambitions are grueling to live up to, the rest of the world’s are debilitating. 

She taps through her feed, scrolling past chatter and appeals and pictures of kittens thoughtlessly. Too often, she opens the app without aim, letting the overwhelming desire to do  _ something _ dictate her self-worth, but fumbles for purchase against the rocks of a roaring river. It’s easy to get lost in the drivel of another day, comforting to fall into the patterns of nostalgia, almost rewarding to give monotony the driver’s seat. 

But a comment flashing on her screen grabs her attention. It’s simple and elegant, a short message followed by a red heart, simple and uncomplicated. The commenter’s name is followed by a little, blue check, verifying his identity and status as a public figure. It isn’t rare for her content to be seen and discussed by celebrities and magazines—she’s had her fair share of press coverage and over-the-phone interviews—and it isn’t even rare for this particular user’s icon to flit across her fingertips, all blond hair and too-green eyes taking up too much space in the small, circular icon, but apprehension tingles through her body anyway. 

Adrien Agreste ✓: _ A beautiful piece as always, Ladybug <3 _

She almost feels like she should be terrified. He’s her enemy, the face of  _ Akuma _ , son of the founder and CEO. He represents everything she’s worked so hard to dismantle, everything she’s adamant to destroy. 

He likes every one of her posts. Even the sketches she does in only minutes, even the ones that she finishes while scrambling out the door, he sees them. He doesn’t comment often (and she’s unwilling to admit how grateful she is for their infrequency) but it’s enough to leave her on edge. They’re always polite—encouraging even—but she can’t help but wonder what type of game he’s playing, what information he’s grabbing. 

She thought about blocking him when it began. The first picture he ever left a comment on was her most time-consuming piece to date. A multi-paged comic about the realities of loss and growing from suffering instead of staying stagnant. It was fully colored and wild with descriptions and emotional appeals, her most popular work. 

Adrien Agreste ✓: <3

Just a heart, that was all it took to make Marinette more nervous than she had ever been. And it continued from there. Hearts and short messages. Some telling her the artwork was beautiful or that her passion was clear. 

She’d never interacted with him. She didn’t respond to his comments or even like them. She didn’t follow his account or take notice of his pictures. She didn’t monitor his hashtags and she  _ definitely _ never received a direct message from him.

Until the night of the fundraiser, that is.

* * *

The ballroom is huge, with gold accents on the walls and pillars draped in heavy cloth. The lights are warm and dim, inviting everyone to take just a step closer as they speak. Tables are set with white cloth and flower arrangements in the center, chairs evenly spaced with plush cushions and not a single one sat in. 

Instead, the room bustles with too many people talking over each other, jewelry clanging as they laugh and throw their heads back, flutes of champagne and glasses of wine dangling from delicate hands. Hair is twisted up off necks, held in place by diamond-encrusted pins, and cufflinks boast the most designer brands. People hang off of each other, hands hitting shoulders or tugging on elbows and the whine of high-pitched voices echoes throughout the room.

It’s a sea of wealth and privilege and Adrien has never felt more alone. 

People grab him, pulling him into their circle and conversation, and expect from him. They expect answers and greatness and charisma—the successor of the company, a man of taste and refinement. They tease without knowing him at all and he smiles politely, offering another beverage before escaping only to be captured once again by another group.

They’re all the same. The same expensive, black attire and fake laughs, the same stories and opinions told to him since birth. The same wine on their breaths, the sickly sweet scent of fruit and alcohol invading his nose when he shakes their hands or they lean in too close. 

He can’t count how many times they’ve said “Have you heard about the Diseased? Another petition in the news” and “The naïvité of your generation, you’re the only sane one left!” as if it makes them unique or funny. And he can only nod in response, agreeing respectfully and bowing out as soon as his good-manners will allow. 

It feels like hours before a firm hand on his shoulder jolts him enough to wake him from the façade.

Gabriel Agreste clears his throat and the group quiets immediately, silenced by his domineering presence and cold stare. A chill travels down Adrien’s spine and represses the urge to shiver.

“My apologies, Alarie, Bedeau, Dupont,” he nods to each of the men in the group, making heavy eye contact before continuing “but I must speak with my son for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Aurélien Dupont says, a man in his late 50s standing closest to Gabriel with greying hair and an ivory cane. “He has kept us so entertained, but we understand he is needed elsewhere. Please give our love to Guillome.”

Adrien smiles, clasping Aurélien’s hand.

“Thank you.” Gabriel’s response is kurt and he spins on his heel before anyone can respond. “Come, Adrien.”

Adrien follows swiftly, shoulders back and head low, shoes clipping rhythmically against the marble floor. The clusters of rich and powerful people part easily for them, like a knife slicing through butter. They skirt aside, knowing better than to get caught in the way of Gabriel Agreste on a mission.

Gabriel leads his son out of the ballroom and through the lobby, stopping in front of a large painting, framed in golden, ornate wood. It’s of his late mother, elegant and ethereal in her youth, all sunshine hair and grassy eyes. Her lips are barely quirked up in a smile, cheeks rosy and alive. 

Adrien doesn’t even need to look up. He’s stared at that painting more time in his life than he’s spent sleeping, it’s tattooed on the back of his eyelids, corrupting him every time he blinks. 

“What is it, father?” Adrien asks when it becomes clear Gabriel won’t speak first.

Gabriel eyes him critically, his gaze traveling the length of his son like he can peer into Adrien’s heart. “You seemed uncomfortable.”   
  
Adrien shifts on his feet, breaking the contact by looking around the empty lobby. “I’ve just been standing a while, I was looking forward to sitting again.”

“I see.” 

Adrien knows his father doesn’t believe him—he was never good at hiding his discomfort at big events—and he scratches his right forearm, halfway between his wrist and elbow. It’s a habit he formed when he was young, just after the first approved  _ Akuma _ was inserted into his arm.

“Stop that.” Gabriel grabs his hand and tosses it back to his side. “You’ll wrinkle your suit.”

“Of course,” Adrien nods, the urge to defy so strong it’s almost a physical pain at the back of his neck. He feels like his body is crawling with insects, like his skin is moving and bubbling with poison. “Apologies, father.”

The silence envelopes them like a blanket of snow, cold and suffocating. Music and mindless chatter from the ballroom is stifled by heavy, wooden doors and Adrien is forced to stand and wait until his father decides he’s been patient enough.

“Do you believe in  _ Akuma _ ?” Gabriel asks, hands clasped behind his back as he stares at the painting of his dead wife. 

Adrien’s head whips to his father but he can find no emotion or motivation in Gabriel’s rigid stance. “What?”

“Do you believe in what we do? Do you believe in this company’s mission? Our legacy?”

“How could you even ask that, of cour—”

“Answer me honestly, Adrien.” Gabriel turns quickly, back straight as an arrow, staring down at Adrien like he’s looking at a flea. “I need to know you understand why _ Akuma _ is important, why our work must be preserved and furthered.”

Adrien gulps. “I do.”

“Do you really?” Gabriel takes a step forward, voice even and unwavering. “You are the face of this company, Adrien. You are our future. It is not enough to frolic through life without taking a stance, you must be committed.”

“I am committed,” Adrien tries to explain, but words fail him, sticking to the back of his throat like molasses, heavy and dark.

“Then act like it. You aren’t fooling anyone in there.”

“I’ll do better,” Adrien assures fervently. “I promise.”

“Don’t promise me.” Gabriel gestures to the painting in front of them, to his mother’s eyes staring him down. “Promise her.”

“Father, I—”

“You know what this did to her, Adrien. If she’d had the implant, she would be alive.”

Adrien sighs. “I know, father.”

“It is our responsibility to make things right!” Gabriel turns away from the painting, facing the ballroom once again. “Those people in there will help us make it right.”

Adrien allows his shoulders to slump for only a moment before he breathes deeply, sliding into perfect posture once again. Gabriel’s words echo against cold walls, filling up the room in chaotic waves, bouncing against each other as they crash into the high ceiling and fall back to the floor. Each surface is so hard and impenetrable, the sound slips between them, meeting nothing to dampen the eager waves as they increasingly distort. 

“We’re protecting the innocent,” Gabriel says finally, a quiet threat in his voice. “Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

He’s walking away from his son before Adrien can even utter a response, not even tossing a glance over his shoulder as Adrien scrambles to keep pace.

* * *

An hour later, Adrien can finally rest his feet. Meals are served, the wealth around him clearly displayed in crystal glasses and porcelain plates too delicate to look at for too long. He’s spoken to so many donors his throat is hoarse and his cheeks hurt from the forced smiles and smalltalk, the pageantry rendering him a shell of the person he believed he was. The table he sits at is closest to the stage, the only one in the room that is long and rectangular. He’s joined by his father’s closest confidants, those involved in the highest level of the business and the scientists that keep the implant afloat. They’re a subdued bunch and the conversation lacks, but Adrien is grateful. After so long of pretense and shallow pleasantries, silence is a welcome distraction.

The microphone directly in center stage lets out a muffled groan as it’s adjusted, a sleek woman pulling it off of its stand without fanfare. Adrien recognizes her as his father’s assistant, Nathalie, although her flowing navy dress is such a contrast to her typical pantsuits, he almost doesn’t.

She doesn't need to clear her throat and her voice commands attention even in its softness. Without raising her volume, the chatter around the room quiets as all eyes turn to her.

“Good evening, everyone. We are pleased to have you all here, discussing our latest improvements for the third iteration of  _ Akuma _ , slated to launch next month.” There’s a smattering of applause—seemingly polite at best—and she briefly pauses until the room quiets again. “We look forward to answering all of your questions and providing you with the most current and accurate information regarding our latest improvements and marketing strategies for the upcoming year. Here to express our gratitude and appreciation for your donations, please welcome Gabriel Agreste, founder and CEO of the  _ Akuma _ brand and technology systems.”

The jangling of watches and bracelets and rings smacking against each other as all of the donors clap and pat themselves on the back sends a shiver down Adrien’s spine like nails on a chalkboard. 

His father walks out onstage, lithe and regal as he always is, and the prattle stops. 

He doesn’t clear his throat, doesn’t adjust the microphone as Nathalie has already done this for him, just walks with even steps, the brush of his heel against the ground a metronome before he stops. Every breath in the room is held, their guests silent for the first time all evening.

Gabriel Agreste begins his speech without preamble or fuss. It lacks the pleasantries of Nathalie’s introduction, a cold, measured tone that raises goosebumps on Adrien’s arms. It’s the same voice he uses for all events, calculated and controlled as if he’s nothing more than a construct of the technology he has created.

“We at  _ Akuma Designs _ have spent the last two decades revolutionizing the world.” Clapping breaks out at his statement, but he pushes through without stopping. “With the advent of the implant and the localized eradication of controlling emotions, we have opened the world to a new chapter of humanity.

“In recent years, we have taken the cure to a new level.” His eyes scan the room, daring anyone to contradict him. “The procedural risks are nonexistent,” he taps a finger against the podium, “we have increased the number of doctors certified to perform the implantation available across all countries,” he taps again, louder, “the longevity of the implant has drastically improved, and we are slated to launch _ Akuma 3.0 _ in two weeks. Implants are already required in the top universities throughout the country, and countless professions have made it compulsory for advancements and license renewals.” 

His words are weighted by silence, heavy with anticipation.

“We believe that by the end of the decade, every functioning member of society will have made the choice to protect themselves and improve their lives with an implant.” 

Adrien wants to spit as the wealthy elite surrounding him explode in applaus and raucous laughter. It isn’t a secret that only those who can afford it benefit from the implant, but to hear it so plainly stated from his own father makes him sick.

Gabriel’s smile is flat and forced, but to an untrained eye, Adrien can almost see how it could appear charming. “I will now answer questions.”

A chair squeaks against the shiny floor as a man stands, buttoning his jacket as he does so. “M. Agreste, how do you plan to expand  _ Akuma  _ following the launch?”

“With the resources accumulated from this event, we have several campaigns at the ready. We will be providing more training and certification to ready doctors to offer and complete the procedure in their own practices, we will arrange educational seminars for students at schools and libraries across the country, and we are funding more research into the long term benefits of the implants. Using the data we’ve gathered and will continue to gather on the implant’s benefits—the decreased emotional outbursts and unpredictability of the human condition, reduction of distress caused by irrational responses to attachment-bound sufferers, lessened obsessive tendencies and harm caused by individuals unstable with the sickness, and prevention of needless death—we will work with the government to appropriately mandate the implant in those whose positions in society necessitate it.”

“And which people might those be?”

“Anyone in contact with the public,” Gabriel replies. “Teachers, nurses, politicians, retail workers, restaurant owners, any government-backed employment opportunity including contractors and lab technicians,” he waves a hand as he speaks. “The list goes on.”

The man thanks him and retakes a seat before another stands across the room and calls for Gabriel’s attention.   
  
“Will the marketing change?”

“We have no plans to change our strategy, only expand our audience.  _ Akuma _ can be for anyone.” The tacit  _ who can afford it  _ is underlined by the intricate carvings on the door frames and the layered chandelier dangling over their heads. Everyone in the room knows exactly whom  _ Akuma _ isn’t for, and it’s clear as they hug their purses tighter to their chests or rub the expensive rings on their fingers. 

Gabriel pulls the microphone off its stand and begins to walk along the edge of the stage, making deliberate eye contact with the crowd. “We are past the days in which humans are forced to suffer through grief and heartache, anger and pain. We are on the precipice of enlightenment, of an era free from torment and anguish. The scars ‘ _ love’ _ ,” he says the word with obvious disdain, fingers curling against microphone and clutching until his knuckles turn white “has left on our society run deep. But as we encourage the population to follow in our footsteps, protect themselves and all of mankind, we create the world we deserve.”

If there’s one thing Gabriel is not, it’s an ineffective businessman. Donors eat his promises out of the palm of his hand like they’re goats in a petting zoo, clinging to his every word with the devotion of the pious.   
  
A woman stands, her forest green dress cascading like a waterfall around her hips. “What about the opposition? How will they be dealt with?”

Adrien frowns, turning away from the woman as she stares intently at his father, like he holds the meaning of life itself in his words. It’s no secret that  _ Akuma  _ has made some enemies, occasionally making enough noise to catch media attention although never lasting long enough to impact sales. 

“Yes, the resistance,” Gabriel nods. “I’m sure I do not have to explain to you all how insignificant their presence is. They’re children, naïve and simple. Caught up in an idealistic fantasy of what the world could be in spite of the way that it is. I have no doubts that the movement will flounder as they grow up and come to see the realities of life on their own.”

“But what if that doesn’t work?” the woman asks, flinching under his sharp gaze. “With all due respect sir, their numbers may be small, but they’re growing.”

“And I suppose the growth of an anthill in a lion’s territory sparks fear in the predator?”

“Ladybug has hundreds of thousands of followers and there are more everyday—”

“Ladybug is barely on the level of political cartoonist,” Gabriel cuts her off. “Hardly anyone worth noting, her only appeal is to young people and those who are economically inactive—”

“Even your own _ son _ pays attention to Ladybug.” 

That stops Gabriel in his tracks. It’s subtle, the smallest of hesitations, but it’s enough for Adrien to stiffen in his chair, trying to avoid his father’s eyes snapping to his.

“Yes,” Gabriel concedes. “He does. Adrien,” He doesn’t have a choice, skin scrawling with anxiety Adrien looks to the stage, to his father washed in warm light completely at odds with the ice in his stare. Gabriel reaches out a hand, perfectly cut and buffed nails looking like they could poke holes in Adrien’s soul. “Come here.”

The chair whimpers as Adrien slides it back, all eyes on him. The elite sitting next to him—the ones who know his father better than anyone—look to him with pity, Nathalie clutching her napkin in her lap like a lifeline. 

His ascent up the staircase leading to the stage feels like the last gasps of Sisyphus, ready to fall from grace once again. 

“Allow me to introduce my son,” Gabriel grasps Adrien’s forearm, thumb pressing directly on the site of the implant, in a gesture that puts the crowd at ease but raises the hair on the back of his neck. “Adrien Agreste, heir to  _ Akuma Designs _ and all associated properties, graduate of  _ Les Académie _ at only 16-years-old, and lead strategist of our newest attempt to make peace with the resistance movement.”

Adrien pales and the crowd applauds, each clap another nail in his coffin. While Adrien has known he should be set to inherit the company, Gabriel has never discussed it with him before, preferring to oversee all parts of the company alone, leaving himself the only man to know all its secrets. Adrien’s been used as the face of the implant, his youth exploited in attempts to further the implant’s reputation among children and teens and young adults, but he’s never had control over the initiatives. His opinion is rarely asked for and never utilized. Adrien has spent more time waiting outside his father’s office than in it.

“He has been working on a brilliant plan to ease tensions between our two sides, starting with  _ Ladybug _ .” The name is spit out his mouth like poison and Adrien flinches. “He has been crafting a working relationship with the artist to keep discussions civil.” Gabriel never strays from addressing the crowd, always putting on a show. “Would you care to elaborate, Adrien?”

Adrien swallows heavily, his tongue like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth. “Of course.” He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and tries to calm his breathing. It isn’t the first time his body has reacted in such a way, becoming dizzy with anxiety and anticipation, but each time it happens, Adrien is more convinced he is an anomaly. If anyone were to discover him, he doesn’t know what would become of him.

Adrien had the procedure done when he was young, younger than any other implant recipient. His father heralded him as the future of humanity, the model of success by which his generation should be held to. 

But Adrien has doubts.

His implant itches in his arm and heavy emotions bubble to the surface—emotions he shouldn’t be able to  _ feel _ . He’s scared and apprehensive, heartbeat racing like in the horror stories about love he was told as a child.

_ The implant takes all that away _ , he was told.  _ You’ll never know the pain of grief or the nausea of a crush. Never feel the fierce anger that divides the world or become delirious with passion that destroys your sense of self. _

But he can still feel the phantoms. He thought his heart would never pound like a hammer in his ear, and yet it does. He was told his skin would never become clammy in infatuation, yet fear now renders them damp. His body betrays him more often than he cares to admit and he can feel himself slipping further from the perfect specimen his father wants him to be.

“My interactions with Ladybug,” he winces, can he even call them interactions when she’s never reciprocated? “have been pleasant, kind. They are encouragements for her to take a closer look at  _ Akuma _ , for her to question what she wants. We’re not so dissimilar, she and I,” he scans over the crowd, trying to connect with the people who sit before him. “We want what’s best for our country, for the world. We may be looking through different lenses, but our goals are the same, our hopes the same. To make the world better, fairer.” 

“Get on to what you plan to do about it,” someone shouts and Adrien winces.

“I plan on talking with her. Earning her trust as she earns mine, and conversing. Convincing her to drop the smear campaign against  _ Akuma _ and learn that we’re improving people’s lives, that the implant is necessary for progress.”

A distinguished gentleman with an ivory cane stands and calls attention to himself with two quick raps on the ground. “With all due respect, what are you doing  _ now _ ? We don’t need to hear this theoretical drivel, what’s the actual plan?”

Adrien hesitates for a moment too long and Gabriel cuts in front, grabbing the microphone from him and taking the attention once again. “We are inviting Ladybug to the launch celebration in two weeks. There we will show her our findings, the well-documented data supporting the necessity of  _ Akuma _ , and discuss her reservations. We are certain through education and diplomacy, we can convince someone so...innocent the realities of our world. She is too young—too idealistic—to truly understand the implications of her actions, but we believe she is bright enough to listen to reason.”

The way Gabriel addresses Ladybug’s position is all-too-familiar. The vague dismissal of her intelligence and agency, painting her as unrealistic and simple, as if she isn’t aware of the dangers lurking beneath the surface civilized interactions, as if she’s been coddled her whole life—her every whim indulged until her view of the world became so skewed it had no basis in reality.

But Adrien can tell she isn’t a stranger to pain.

From those first drawings he ever saw, she enticed him with the promise of knowledge, a whisper of what he’s never understood. He could feel the cracks forming, feel the cover from the implant chipping away as he viewed the grief, the love, the anguish she portrayed. It’s as if she could reach through the screen and slowly unravel his seams, tear down his walls one brick at a time until the only thing left standing is a man. And he knows he shouldn’t want it—knows he should run from her and the threat she imposes—but the call to orbit closer, to fall into her gravity and worship her like the sun, is much stronger than anything convincing him to stay away.

He shouldn’t be able to feel, and yet he does. How much of it is due to his own biology and the consequences of being one-of-a-kind and how much is from her own emotions leaping off the page and finding a new home secure in his chest, he doesn’t know. All he knows is the pull he feels, the stirring in him he knows shouldn’t be there. 

The sequence of events following one afflicted with the forbidden emotions have been burned into his brain like  _ Akuma’s _ own personal brand, fiery hot and searing his thoughts with their iron. His heart will speed up, skipping beats and pounding harder than natural. His face will flush, a sign of the devil taking control of his actions. His hands will tremble, body will perspire, stomach will cramp and feel like it’s floating away. Soon he won’t remember how to think, will barely be able to breathe on his own, and by then it will be too late. The hysteria will get him just like it got his mother. 

In all the books he’s read and all the data he’s studied, though, they never once mentioned how good it could feel.

* * *

Incoming message from Adrien Agreste ✓ received at 12:02AM 

Adrien Agreste ✓: Please accept our invitation to the launch of  _ Akuma 3.0 _ in four weeks. Black-tie required.

* * *

“You’ve been staring at that screen for twenty minutes, put the phone down.” Alya swipes at Marinette’s arm, stretching over her on the bed they’re lounging on. Marinette rolls onto her stomach, taking the phone farther out of reach and tries to push her friend away.

“I don’t know what to do,  _ help me _ .”

They struggle for a moment longer before Alya gets bored, returning back to the magazine she dropped onto her comforter. “I can’t make the decision for you.”

“Nino?” Marinette tries, using her most sympathetic voice to grab his attention.

He’s working at the desk in the corner of the room, headphones resting around his neck as he types at his laptop. “Nope,” his fingers don’t even stutter as he speaks. “Not touching that one, ‘Nette.”

“Please?” Marinette begs, finally dropping the phone down to the bed and sitting up to wrap her arms around her knees. “How can you call yourselves my best friends if you won’t help me in my time of need?”

Alya snorts. “Your time of need?” She laughs at Marinette’s scowl. “Don’t pout. You’ll scare Santa away.” 

“This is serious and I can’t get any input from the people who know me the best.”

Nino pushes himself away from the desk, swiveling to face the girls on the bed. “It’s not really my wheelhouse, you’re more the activist than I am.”

“Then what’s Alya’s excuse? Or are her political articles not enough ‘activism’ despite having been featured in several major publications and one of the lines she wrote being used as a battling cry for the resistance?”

“The difference is they’re not asking for me, M. They’re asking for you. Or Ladybug, I guess.”

“Me, Ladybug, what difference does it make?” Marinette flops back on the bed, one arm hanging off the side. “The anonymity would be gone as soon as I showed up.”

“Then I guess that settles it, right? You won’t do it,” Nino says, smacking a hand on his lap. “Your safety is more important.”

“Unless…”

He shoots her a look. “Babe, no.”

“Hear me out!” Alya turns and grabs Marinette’s hand, pulling her back up so she’s sitting once again. “What if you say you’ll go, but only if you can go  _ as Ladybug _ ? No real names, no ID checks, no attempts to weasel information out of you. If they want Ladybug, they only get Ladybug.”

“I don’t even know what they want with Ladybug. Maybe I was only invited so they could try and out me.”

“Maybe,” Alya concedes, “but if that’s true, then they won’t agree to your terms, and  _ bam! _ , you don’t have to go. Done, sorted, they made the decision for you and you don’t have to agonize anymore.”

Marinette bites her lip, gaze falling back down to the phone at her side. The screen is black, her reflection staring back at her. “And if they say yes?”

Alya grabs the phone and flips Marinette’s hand over so her palm faces the ceiling. “Then it’s up to you.” Alya smiles softly, dropping the phone in Marinette’s hand and curling her fingers around it. “It’s your choice."

* * *

Nathalie announces her presence in Adrien’s room with only her quick steps against an echoing linoleum. “Have you received a response from Ladybug yet?” 

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Your father will not be pleased.”

He runs a hand through his hair and it flops wildly over his forehead. “I’ll contact her again, I’m trying—”

“M. Agreste is unsure if you can handle this task or if he needs to find someone more—,” she pauses before she says the last word, swallowing heavily, “capable.”

He grits his teeth, no stranger to a father expecting him to fail, but hurting just the same. “I’ve got it, Nathalie. I take it this means he doesn’t have the time to speak with me about my accessibility ideas?” The look she gives him is so strained he almost feels bad for her. “Of course,” he sighs.

“Remember that he is only trying to clean up your mistakes.”

Adrien’s tone is clipped. “Right. How could I forget.” And really, how  _ could _ he? His father brings up his mistakes at every opportunity. Short of burying his head in the sand or unlearning his first language, he can’t escape.

Nathalie looks like she has something else to say, her hand rising as if she’s going to reach out to him before it drops limply back to her side. She turns on her heel, leaving as swiftly as she entered.

Adrien drags a hand down his face, sitting gingerly on the edge of his couch. His head pounds, the stress from the responsibility on his shoulders combined with his father’s obvious distrust of his abilities prevent him from completing even a simple task. To be treated as both child and adult—the lack of faith in the young but the expectations of the mature—is more stifling than even his years of solitude.

He pulls out his phone, letting the empty direct message blind him. 

Adrien Agreste ✓: Please accept our invitation to the launch of  _ Akuma 3.0 _ in four weeks. Black-tie required.

He knows it won’t even show him whether or not she’s read the message until she accepts his request, but he can’t help but hope to see three dancing dots at the bottom of his screen.

Adrien Agreste ✓: Hello! I just wanted to contact you aga

He backtracks, deleting his words before he can even finish the sentence.

Adrien Agreste ✓: Have you thought anymore about our offe

Adrien Agreste ✓: We need a headcount for the caterer so if you could

Adrien Agreste ✓: Is there anything I can say to convin

Adrien Agreste ✓: What would it take 

Adrien Agreste ✓: Please

He deletes them all.

He can’t help but feel that anything he writes would read like the ramblings of a madman and he groans, letting his phone fall to his chest with a heavy  _ smack _ . It shouldn’t be this difficult to invite Ladybug to such a prestigious event, yet he can’t seem to do any of it right. How could he ever convince someone to go when  _ he  _ doesn’t even want to be there?

Adrien is so wrapped up in his own unrest, he almost misses the phone vibrate against his collarbone, echoing throughout his body.

myladybug: I’m listening.

* * *

Marinette huffs out a breath of warm air, blowing the bangs off her forehead in frustration. Her chin rests on the heel of her palm, fingers pressing against her cheek heard enough to leave imprints. Her wrist rests against the rings of her sketchbook as she details a hand reaching out of the page towards the viewer. 

It’s uninspired. She’s done it before. She remembers etching the same rounded lines on a hand’s knuckles, the same half moons at the bottom of each nail, a mundane attempt to capture the passion she ordinarily feels. Giving fervor the reins for her creativity is a risk—a gamble to find some element of truth in her most hidden thoughts. It’s worked for almost her entire time as Ladybug, but even her luck sometimes runs out.

She’s distracted. Concentrating on her artwork and the message she’s trying to send is difficult when each stroke reminds her of the messages burning like a slow fire in the back of her mind. She feels ill-equipped to make a decision with such perceived significance.

She doesn’t even hear Alya come through the front door, cursing as her key gets stuck in the lock. 

“A little help here?” 

Marinette startles out of her daze, rushing to take the bag of takeout from Alya’s arms and place them on the table while she grabs silverware. “Are we waiting for Nino?”

She shakes her head, hair bouncing against her cheek. “He’s having dinner with his folks. It’s the first time he’s been able to convince them to talk since he lost his job.”

She doesn’t say it, but they both know Nino’s estrangement from the family has little to do with being dropped from his photography agency and everything to do with his condemnation of the implant his family now relies on.

“He’s doing that today?”

Alya shrugs, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the backs of one of the chairs. “Apparently.”

Marinette sets one of the forks she grabbed back in the drawer and closes it with her hip as she reaches into the cabinet directly above her to grab two glasses. “I thought you two were going to wait until that study came out by—”

“Well clearly, we’re not.” Palms flat on the table, shoulders hunched forward, Alya is the picture of discontent.

Marinette is at her friend’s side in a minute, glasses and silverware dropped onto the table without much care so she can rest a hand on Alya’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Alya. I know this isn’t what you planned.”

She leans into the touch but keeps her face hidden from Marinette’s view. “I’m not angry with you, I’m just frustrated.”

“You know he would never let them turn him against you, right?” Marinette’s thumb rubs in small, soothing circles. “It doesn’t matter what they tell him, he would never give up what you two have.”

Alya sighs. “I know that, I do. Nino is strong and brave and I know he wouldn’t give up love, even for all the grief it’s caused him.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Marinette’s hand slides off her shoulder as Alya drops into a chair and closes her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier to stop fighting?”

“What?” She sits down beside her friend.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to not have to struggle against this all the time?”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting we sto—”

“I’m not.” Her hands lay flat on the table as if she’s soaking up its energy. “I’m suggesting we need to finish this once and for all. No more waffling, no more useless interviews where the ‘fixed’ can marvel at how strange and fragile we are, all the while pretending they give a damn, no more treating this like it’s an aesthetic.”

Marinette bites her lower lip, swallowing hard. “Alya, we’re nowhere near the end of this.”

“I know.” She looks at her friend, eyes blazing in sincerity. “And that’s why I think you should go to the launch.”

“Als…”

She grabs Marinette’s hand. “It’s your decision and you need to do what’s best for you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“But you also need to think about what’s at stake. What can be gained and what can be lost.”

“I know.” Marinette hangs her head. “I know you’re right. This is an incredible opportunity for us to gather information, finally learn more about  _ Akuma Designs _ and maybe do some damage from the inside, but…”

“I know it feels like a trap.” Alya shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed. “And honestly? It probably is. I can’t imagine the Agrestes inviting you out of a genuine interest in ‘the resistance.’” She rolls her eyes. “But we’re smarter than them. We can’t just sit here and do nothing while they use their power and influence to practically take over the world.”

“You’re right.” Marinette leans against the chair’s backrest, head tilting up to look at their water-damaged ceiling with its large discolored splotches and warped paneling. “This is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”

“And you know Nino and I have your back.”

“What if I can’t do it, Alya?” she asks, not tearing her eyes away from the ceiling. “I’m good at being Ladybug, I’m good at getting attention and directing it right where we need it. I can show up to fight, I can change people’s minds, but  _ this _ ? Going right into  _ Akuma _ headquarters? When I don’t even know what they want from me?”

Alya’s voice drips with sympathy. “Marinette...”

“I’m serious, Alya. This is huge and I’m the only one who can do it, but what if I can’t? What if we have this huge opportunity and I just completely blow it? We’re never going to get a chance like this again.”

“It’s a lot,” Alya agrees. “More than anyone should have to deal with. But you can do this.”

Marintte’s head flops to the side, looking Alya dead on. “You can’t know that.”

“Please,” Alya scoffs. “I’ve known you for years. Nino’s known you practically your entire lives. And you think we don’t know what you’re capable of?”

“This isn’t self-deprecation or a lack of self-confidence or something, we have no reason to trust I can do this.”

Alya sighs, taking a deep breath before acknowledging her friend’s point. “Look, M, you’re right.”

She snorts. “The mighty Alya admitting defeat?”

“I’m not done,” Alya playfully glares at her. “You’re right that this is something you haven’t done before—something none of us have done before. On paper, none of us are up to the task.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better, thanks.”

“Ass,” she chides, kicking the leg of Marinette’s chair. “What I’m saying is that, yeah, if we were to send in our CVs for sneaking into the capitalist wet dream that is  _ Akuma Designs _ and taking it down from the inside, none of us would even land an interview. But this is the chance we have. You are the chance we have.”

“It doesn’t have to be me,” Marinette says, tugging on her hair. “Nobody’s ever seen Ladybug before, she could be anyone.”

Alya turns her body so it’s facing Marinette and leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees, looking directly into Marinette’s eyes. “You  _ are _ Ladybug, Marinette. No one knows as much as you do about your art and no one can bring the same kind of passion and heart to them.”

There’s no mistaking her sincerity, and Marinette almost wants to shy away from it, let distance muffle the intensity. “I don’t want to make the wrong choice,” she says, but it sounds weak even to her own ears.

“Doing something is never the wrong choice. Sitting idly and letting evil win? That’s the wrong choice.”

Marinette fidgets in her seat, picking at her nails and smoothing her pants restlessly. Alya doesn’t say anything, just lets her words echo around the tiny room, fill the cracks and crevices of the space as if it were trying to pry the place apart, one floorboard at a time.

“Do you really think I can do this?” she asks quietly, whispering the words on an exhale.

“I know you can,” Alya says without hesitation. “But that isn’t the question. Do you think you can do this?”

Marinette answers truthfully. “I don’t know.”

“That’s  _ okay _ ,” Alya emphasizes, curling a hand around her friend’s forearm. 

“But I’m going to find out.”

Alya’s grin is wide and infectious and when she pulls Marinette to her feet so she can hug her properly, it doesn’t take long for Marinette to start smiling too.

* * *

myladybug: I have some conditions

Adrien Agreste ✓: Of course, what can I do for you?

myladybug: I will only attend as Ladybug

Adrien Agreste ✓: Who else would you be?

myladybug: I mean it. My identity will remain a secret. No attempts to uncover personal   
information about me, no asking for identification or pictures of me, no background   
checks   
You get Ladybug or you get nothing

Adrien Agreste ✓: I’ll see to it personally  
How are you planning to keep your face a secret?

Marinette smirks at her phone, picking up the polka dotted mask she finished earlier in the day. It’s embellished with black lace and intricate swirls around its edges, but the ladybug influence is unmistakable.    
  
myladybug: You’ll see

* * *

myladybug: How is this going to be...advertised for lack of a better word

Adrien dives for his phone as soon as he hears it go off, almost dropping the stack of papers in his hand.   
  
Adrien Agreste ✓: What do you mean?

myladybug: How are you letting your donors know that Ladybug will be present? 

He frowns, tapping his fingers against the plastic case. He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he’s certain she won’t take kindly to how presumptuous they’d been.   
  
Adrien Agreste ✓: They may already know

myladybug: And how long have they known

Adrien Agreste ✓: ...since our last fundraiser?

myladybug: Are you joking? 

Adrien Agreste ✓: Did it seem funny?

myladybug: Not even a little   
  
He sighs, knowing there’s no way around telling her the entire truth.

Adrien Agreste ✓: My father may have made an announcement at the fundraiser that we had   
hoped you would make an appearance at the launch

myladybug: So not only did you tell people before I’d agreed to come, you told people before   
you’d even asked me?  
You get why that’s insane, right?  
  
He cringes. She’s right. But Gabriel Agreste doesn’t do backup plans.

Adrien Agreste ✓: I do  
I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but please accept my sincerest   
apologies

myladybug: Was it your idea?

Adrien Agreste ✓: Not exactly

myladybug: Then I don’t need your apology  
I’m not interested in allowing you or anyone else at your company to become a   
martyr

Adrien Agreste ✓: That’s really not my intention

myladybug: You’re your own person and I’ll judge you based on your own choices, got it?

Adrien Agreste ✓: Got it

myladybug: Good.  
Now, what exactly does one wear to something like this? 

* * *

“They’re going to think I’m a sellout,” Marinette laments on the phone to Nino as she picks up groceries.

“Who?”

“My followers!” She groans at him. “You’re not paying attention at all right now, are you?”

“You called me,” he reminds her. “And you pretended like this was about not knowing if we needed eggs.”

“Eggs lead to breakfast which lead to coffee and then that period of time I tried to use coffee as watercolor paint which lead to what I currently do for art which lead to my instagram which lead to thinking I’m a sellout for going to the launch event of a thing I absolutely despise and have built a following of being very vocally against.”

“Breathe, Marinette.” Nino does some example techniques exaggeratedly over the phone and Marinette sticks her tongue out at him even though he can’t see her. “If you keep running your mind like that and forget to breathe, you’re gonna pass out.”

“Bite me,” she says, her shopping cart squeaking as she turns around the aisle. “And put Alya on the phone, she gets it.” 

“Call her yourself.” 

“Who do you think I called in the first place? She’s not answering.”

“She’s probably working. Y’know like most people midday on a Wednesday?” he teases.

“I got into work at four this morning, excuse me for not asking questions when they let me off early. I’m grateful enough they hired me in the first place, god knows enough places turn people like us down.”

“Look, you already said you were going, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I think you just have to go.”

“I still have time to back out,” Marinette insists, fingers clenching around the handle. “So far, only  _ Akuma’s  _ investors know I’m supposed to be there and if I don’t show up, what are they going to do to me?”

“I don’t think you want them to start digging.”

She groans. “You may be right. I don’t.”

“Do my ears deceive me? Did the Great Marinette Dupain-Cheng just say I’m right?”

“Don’t get used to it,” she grumbles. “But I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“Why? You think  _ Gabriel Agreste  _ has any integrity?”

“Of course not.”

Nino’s silent for a moment, letting her easy admission process before he realizes what she’s really talking about. “Oh...so this is about Adrien, then.”

Marinette sputters. “W-what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Alya’s mentioned you two talk a lot.”

“Not a  _ lot _ ,” Marinette grabs some stock to put in her cart, “he just happens to be my only point of contact for the launch.” 

“She said you told her he was, and I quote, ‘not that bad’ end quote.” 

“That’s not exactly a raving review, is it?”

“When it comes to you and _ Akuma _ it is.”

“He just…” Marinette searches for the right word as she scans the shelves, pretending to look busy “surprised me, that’s all.” 

It’s a bit of an understatement. Adrien had messaged her everyday since she asked for the specifics of the dress code and she couldn’t find it in herself to ignore him. He was thoughtful. Almost caring. 

“Surprised you,” Nino repeats.

“Yeah, neither good nor bad. Just. Surprising.”

“How so?”

“He listens to me. And he’ll even agree with me on things. And he always comments on my artwork and he seems so sincere…”

“He could be lying,” Nino says, keeping his voice soft so it doesn’t sound accusing. “Trying to lull you into a false sense of security.”

“He probably is,” she acknowledges, biting her lower lip. “But I just—I just don’t think so. And I can’t explain it but…”

She’s silent long enough that Nino has to prompt her to continue.

“But?”

“Nino, I know this is going to sound crazy, but it’s almost like he can actually  _ feel _ things.”

“Gabriel Agreste’s son?” Nino scoffs. “You think Gabriel Agreste’s son might not have an implant.”

“I know that sounds crazy, and he probably  _ does _ have an implant, but I swear he almost seems like he can empathize with me sometimes!” The older woman crossing her path in the tight aisle gives her a harsh look and purposefully steps as far away from her as possible, like she’s afraid of catching the emotions pouring off of Marinette. Marinette ducks her head, tucking the phone closer to her neck and lowers her volume, avoiding eye contact with the small group of people staring at her like she’s patient zero. “He sounds like he genuinely cares about people, like he understands sadness and loss and that’s not normal for people with implants.”

“Maybe he’s a good actor?” Nino tries.

“Maybe.”

“You don’t believe that.” It’s not a question. Nino can already tell Marinette’s made up her mind about him.

“I don’t know what I believe.”

Nino sighs in surrender. “Then it sounds like you have even less of a reason to back out.”

She laughs but there’s no humor behind it, only begrudging acceptance. “Guess I really am just a sellout then, huh.”

“I think if  _ Akuma  _ is hoping for a sellout, they’re going to be completely unprepared for who’s about to mess them up.”

* * *

Marinette is ready to pull her hair out. She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows in an attempt to cool down, but she knows her frustration is plain for all to see.

She’s walking through a fabric store, fingers trailing along the various textures and eyes cataloguing the bold colors and delicate patterns, but none of it is right. She has neither the time nor budget to finance a major project, but all the appropriate brands Adrien had sent her in her quest for proper launch party attire proved fruitless. The gowns are expensive and haughty, and to even step inside most boutiques requires proof of implant. Though the studies suggesting non-implanted individuals can “spread” their emotions to those who have chosen the “more secure path” were widely discredited a decade ago, the lingering effects of the defamation campaign still prevail. 

She catches sight of an employee out of the corner of her eye. He wears an apron with the store’s logo on the front, pockets filled with a pen and paper and tape, hair trimmed short. He’s too far away for her to read his nametag, but she waves her right hand to attract his attention as she walks in his direction, hoping to find where they moved the clearance section.

She knows he sees her as he puts down the bolt of fabric in his arms and smiles respectfully, just the smallest upturn of his lips in acknowledgement. She’s close enough that she’s about to speak, mouth already forming a polite “hello” when his eyes fall to her bare forearm and his brows furrow. 

Marinette already knows what’s about to happen—it isn’t the first time—but she pushes forward anyway even as he turns on his heel and ducks into the nearest aisle.

His cry of “break” as he speedwalks to the back of the store is enough to deter Marinette from following him, but she’s already so exhausted she wouldn’t have tried it anyway. 

She’s about to take another pass through the store in hopes of stumbling upon the section she needs when her phone buzzes continually in her back pocket, breaking her fixed stare on her unblemished, right forearm.

She frowns as she pulls it out, seeing a familiar name flash across the screen. “Alya? What’s up? I thought you had a big meeting today.”

“Cancelled,” Alya answers, out of breath.

“What? Why? You’d been talking about that for—”

“Later,” she dismisses and Marinette knows better than to argue. “Where are you?”

“I’m looking for fabric.”

“Well, stop and get home right now.”

Marinette shakes her head though she knows her friend can’t see her. “I can’t just drop everything and go home, I needed to start on this dress, like, yesterday.”

“I have a surprise for you,” Alya sing songs. 

Marinette pauses, her tone reflecting her skepticism. “What is it?”

“I can’t tell you until you get here.”

“Seriously, Alya,” she presses a finger to her brow. “I don’t have time to waste.”

“Then chop-chop, leave and get home ASAP.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Bye!” Alya cuts her off, holding out the last vowel until she presses “end” so Marinette can’t continue.

Marinette frowns at her phone, already back to her home screen. It isn’t unusual for Alya to surprise Marinette with something so important she requires her friend to drop everything and revel in her latest discovery. And she knows it’s best to cut her losses at the store, particularly when she sees the employee she approached whispering to his coworkers and casting furtive glances in her direction. She doesn’t need Alya’s detective skills to know what they’re discussing.

It’s raining as Marinette leaves the shop, the sky overcast and blank. Fat, heavy droplets coat the sidewalk and send ripples through puddles, only just quiet enough to not have heard from inside. 

Her phone buzzes once in her back pocket and she ignores it, keeping it dry by pulling her shirt out from its position tucked in her pants and letting it hang over her hips, covering her backside. 

Their apartment isn’t far from the store—only a few blocks—but with the wind picking up and whipping her face red with raindrop bullets, she isn’t paying enough attention to her feet. The uneven sidewalks are slick from rain and dirt and leaves, sending her skating on a tractionless rink, her flats too worn down to save her.

Her feet kick out to try and catch her, legs spiraling like a baby deer taking its first steps, and just as she accepts her fate, a warm hand grasps her elbow and pulls her back to safety. 

She can’t see her savior at first with her damp hair clumping on her forehead and hanging into her eyes, but her gratitude is already falling from her lips in a waterfall of appreciation.

“Thank you so much.” Her feet stumble beneath her and she clutches at the stranger’s forearm, trying to keep herself afloat. “I thought I was going down for sure.”

“No problem,” the stranger says, sticking close to her side for support but not putting their hands on her again. “This storm came out of nowhere.”

“You’re telling me.” Once she feels comfortable that her legs won’t slide out from beneath her, she wipes the bangs from her brow, pushing the damp hair out of her eyes. “I’m just madly clumsy—” her words fizzle in her throat like bubbles popping in champagne when her gaze finally crashes into a meadow of green—a peaceful, sunny escape from the dull greys surrounding them.

She knows who he is instantly—she’s seen his face and halo of blond hair on countless campaigns and covers, the poster child of everything she stands against. And though his visage usually fills her stomach with a dull ache of misplaced anger and bitterness, this time it drops out from under her completely. She’s momentarily weightless, tethered to the ground only by gentle fingers and a magnetic stare. 

“No worries,” Adrien Agreste’s smile lights up his face and she’s torn between wanting to bask in the sunshine tearing through the cloudy sky and rip herself out of his grasp. A black umbrella twirls over their heads like he’s trying to douse them in merriment. “I can be really clumsy too.”

“I’m sure,” she says, more breathless than she means to be.

He leans in a centimeter closer to her, not enough to intrude on her space, but enough to give them the semblance of conspiracy. “Truthfully, though, I think the blame goes to the sidewalk. Or maybe even Mother Nature herself. You were plotted against.”

She automatically leans away from him, tugging her shirtsleeves down until she can grip them around her palms. “Yeah, maybe.” She forces a laugh and he’s too polite to call her on it. “Well, um, thank you again. I’ve got to just...go. Bye.”

She hates that she sounds awkward and uncertain, but her mind both screams at her to get away and stay right by his side and she doesn’t trust herself enough to make the right decision. Turning away from him, Marinette almost starts sprinting the last few blocks to the apartment, but he calls out to her before she can take a step.

“Wait!”

She considers ignoring him, but the way his voice cracks on the word has her planting her feet on the ground and looking over her shoulder curiously.

He looks just as surprised for calling out to her as she feels. “Can I offer you a ride?”

She raises her eyebrows at him, taken aback by his boldness. “No, thank you.”

“It’s just that it’s raining.” 

“I can see that,” she says, much more comfortable now that he seems as flustered as she was. “Don’t worry, I won’t melt.”

He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I—um—here.” He shoves the umbrella into her arm. “Take it, please.”

“I couldn—”

“I insist,” he lets go of the handle and backs away so she’s forced to grab it or let it tumblr to the ground. “My driver will be here any minute, I really don’t need it.”

Maybe she should act more surprised at the mention of his driver—he basically just revealed himself to be either rich or famous or both—but she figures he probably never expected to be incognito. 

“Well, then,” she clears her throat, suddenly scratchy. “Thank you. That’s very...kind.”

“My pleasure.”

And it’s a little bit crazy, but she actually believes him.

* * *

Adrien Agreste ✓: Do you ever feel like you could never live up to expectations? Like something’s just wrong in your brain and you don’t see the world properly?

* * *

By the time Marinette gets home, her shoes are squeaking with every step, squishy with water soaked through to her skin. They rub her ankles red and she’s more excited than usual to kick them off as she closes the door to their apartment.

Alya is at her side in a second. “Don’t get me wrong, girl, I have questions about that umbrella,” she says taking the handle from Marinette and dropping it to the floor before pulling her farther into the room, “but right now, all that matters is you seeing what I got for you.”

“Hi, Alya. I’m good, thanks for asking—you’re such a sweetheart—how are you?” Marinette says sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“I  _ am _ such a sweetheart. A sweetheart who’s considerate enough to not waste everyone’s time with smalltalk and mindless chitchat.”

“There’s a place for smalltalk in polite society,” Marinette argues and Alya laughs.

“I think we’ve both been thoroughly kicked from polite society.” She tugs Marinette into her room and pushes on her shoulders to make her sit in the chair by the desk. “But it’s good you’ve taken some pointers to get ready for the launch. It’s not going to help our cause if they think Ladybug is a cavewoman.”

Marinette sticks her tongue out at her friend. “The cavewomen dream of having my sense of wit and style.”

“No arguments here.” Alya places her hands on the back of the chair, spinning it around to face the wall. “And speaking of style, you’re about to owe me big time for saving yours. Tada!”

Marinette’s jaw drops to the floor, unhinged as she gapes at the dress hanging off the wall hook in front of her.

It’s a deep red, with just enough vibrancy to liven the room without becoming tasteless in the harsh lighting. The bodice is fitted and bare, almost boring with its high neckline and clean lines leading into a full, horsehair trimmed ball gown, the fabric pooling in wide ruffles like rolling waves. It’s smooth and soft, spilling like liquid from the hanger and Marinette’s too surprised to offer anything more than high pitched squeaks and wide eyes.

“It’s perfect right?” Alya says, hands on her hips admiring her work. “The perfect base for you to work with. A bit boring and cliché, but it’s got enough stuff here for you to make it something beautiful.”

“You got this for me?” Marinette asks incredulously, not looking away from the gown in front of her. “How?”

“I have my ways.” Alya brushes her off. “I’ve got friends at all the consignment stores and sometimes all it takes is a little bit of digging to find out where the next big donation is gonna come from.”

When Marinette doesn’t say anything, Alya spins her away from the dress so she can scan her face. “Well? Don’t you love it? It looked like it was about your size and since you’re going to be making alterations to it anyway, I figured it would still be better than trying to come up with something on your own. Way cheaper too.”

“Alya, it’s _gorgeous._ ” Marinette leaps from the chair, arms clutching her friend in a deep hug. “Thank you thank you thankyou!”

“You’re still wet!” Alya half-heartedly struggles in Marinette’s embrace before returning it, her own tshirt dampening and clinging to her skin.

“I can’t wait to start altering it! Maybe I’ll change the hemline? Lower the neck? It definitely needs some spots if it’s going to match the mask—hey, where are you going!”

“To get your sketchbook,” Alya calls over her shoulder. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

* * *

When Adrien crawls into the mansion, he’s dead on his feet.

It stopped raining long ago, but the chill in the air cut through to his bones and he’s only a strong breeze away from disappearing completely—brittle and lifeless like shattering glass. The house feels empty, too large and filled up with nothingness, only expensive paintings and avant-garde furniture too experimental to be useful to feign comfort.

Adrien pulls out his phone, checking once again to see if Ladybug has responded.

Adrien Agreste ✓: Do you ever feel like you could never live up to expectations? Like something’s just wrong in your brain and you don’t see the world properly?   
_ Seen _

It’s the first time the message has been marked as read and he feels a prickling discomfort at the base of his neck, the unsettled itch of the vulnerable. He’s been increasingly candid with Ladybug, but the message is further than he’s ever gone with her and all he sees is a step too far.

He cringes in on himself, cursing for being so naïve as he presses a finger down on the message, holding until he gets the option to erase. Without hesitation, he deletes the message, trying to wipe it from his mind as easily as it is wiped from the chat log.

_ This message has been unsent by the sender. _

Lifting his feet to walk to his room requires Herculean strength, the weight of responsibility and inevitable disappointment pressing him into the floor heavily. He knows his father and Nathalie won’t be joining him for dinner—he hasn’t earned their presence anyway—and he’s beginning to wonder if he’ll see them at all before the launch. He’s been given minor tasks to complete before the event—checking in with the caterer, updating the guest list, confirming the music—but it’s all busiwork, nothing to prove he’s trusted with any facet of the company.

Adrien sighs, closing the door to his room quietly and flopping down onto his couch, an arm thrown across his eyes. He wants to avoid seeing the world almost as desperately as he wants to avoid being seen by it. 

He knows he’s messed up too many times in his father’s eyes to be taken seriously and it makes his head pound. He’s done nothing but dedicate his life to a cause he isn’t even sure is worth fighting for anymore and all he has to show for it is an advanced degree and chronic isolation. 

It makes him...feel. And he knows he shouldn’t be able to feel. He shouldn’t be able to get upset or angry or jealous when his father chastises him, shouldn’t be able to crave affection like it’s a lifeboat in an ocean of antipathy, shouldn’t loathe loneliness as the freezing hand it is, constricting around his throat as he pleads for mercy. 

He scrunches up his eyes, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts and be the person he’s supposed to be. The person he should be. The person his father wants him to be.

He’s broken.

His phone buzzes, muted by the couch, and he considers not checking. Whatever they want with him, whatever they want from him, he needs time to collect himself. Ingrained obedience has him checking anyway.

myladybug: Hey. I know you deleted the message you sent before and I’m sure you had a good   
reason for that and I don’t mean to pry or anything but  
Yes  
I do

* * *

If Marinette were smart, she would not be letting Alya and Nino help her get her ready.

“No, don’t look at the camera! Pretend you’re in the middle of a conversation—”

“We  _ were _ in the middle of a conversation.” Marinette shoots him a glare as she holds a section of hair in front of her face so it doesn’t interrupt Alya’s work at the back of her head.

“Exactly. Be animated and happy, but don’t  _ look _ like you’re trying to look like that, got it?”

“How’m I doin’ babe?” Alya asks around the clips poking out from between her lips, fingers twirling Marinette’s hair into an elegant bun.

“Gorgeous, as always.” He lowers the camera to wink at her.

“I’m all for love and affection, but you guys know I’m still in the room, right? You get that?”

Nino goes back to taking photos, ignoring the glare Marinette gives him. “That’s what you get for being in our bedroom.”

“You dragged me in here!”

“Irrelevant,” Alya takes the loose piece from Marinette’s hand and wraps it around the whole, fixing the last pin in Marinette’s hair. “The facts are the facts.”

“The facts are you guys are horrible friends and I pity anyone who has ever had to live with you.”

“Horrible friends who made you look like a movie star.” Alya takes Marinette’s hand and drags her out of the chair to the full length mirror in the corner of their bedroom. “See for yourself.”

Even Marinette has to admit it’s impressive. 

Her makeup is minimal since the mask will cover much of her skin, only touches to exaggerate her eyes and paint her lips as scarlet as forbidden fruit. 

Her hair is swept off her neck, pulled back with a braid and twisted high on the top of her head, embellished with black and red pins, reminiscent of a ladybug pattern. A few pieces stay out with her fringe to frame her face, wisping over her cheekbones and just barely grazing the line of her jaw.

Marinette squeezes Alya’s hand, turning to watch the dress flutter around her legs. She altered the hemline, raising it dramatically in the front until it looked like her legs were framed by ladybug wings spread in flight. She painstakingly added various sized black beads circling her waist, stretching up the bodice sporadically and down her hips similarly. Larger swaths of black lace and beads adorn the trim of the dress, just barely grazing the floor, reaching up in increasingly thinly dispersed tendrils.

“Alya…” Marinette says in wonder as her friend lifts their linked hands and spins her under her arm.

“Beautiful, as always.”

Nino’s camera hangs around his neck as he hands her the mask and adhesive. “And, most importantly, unrecognizable.”

Marinette nods. “I don’t think I’ve ever even considered wearing something this…” her free hand travels down her waist to the billowing skirt, ruffling the fabric “...ornate before.”

Nino smiles. “It suits you.” 

“You rock everything,” Alya agrees. “Now, let’s get this show on the road.” 

* * *

Adrien’s hair is perfectly styled for the third time after his restless fingers once again destroyed it.

“There,” his stylist says, a petite woman with practiced hands and a more practiced scowl. “No more touching.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, backing away from her glare. “Hands by my side for the rest of the evening, I promise.”

She huffs as she packs up her products to find the next person whose hair is entrusted in her care and Adrien looks after her guiltily for having wasted so much of her time. He doesn’t mean to be so much of a bother, but there’s an energy buzzing through his system that he can’t control, an anxious thrumming of his pulse that keeps him on edge.

His father is more clipped and terse than usual, barely sparing him a glance and a short “remember your position” all day. Nathalie only straightens out his jacket or hands him a stack of papers and the lack of communication from everyone on staff makes him feel like he’s going into the gala blind. 

He’s supposed to make a speech during the night, announce how well  _ Akuma 3.0 _ has been received in beta testing and showcase how their stock prices have risen. While his father’s speech will encourage more interest amongst lobbyists, remind them of the benefits of the implant and why it should be a requirement for all citizens until they have eradicated all emotional suffering, his is supposed to persuade investors. 

Adrien wrote a speech himself but it was deemed unsuitable, replaced instead by one written by Nathalie, approved by all the heads of the company. He isn’t even allowed to look it over before the party, it will be waiting for him at the podium and he’ll be expected to read it and stand by the words as if they came from his own brain. It isn’t unusual for Adrien’s work to be demolished and his face used without any concern for the person underneath, but the repetition doesn’t lessen the sting. 

The party has already begun, important investors whisked inside and offered wine and hors d'oeuvres, flutes of champagne distributed to each table setting, the band playing upbeat but dry music designed to stimulate conversation rather than distract from it. Gabriel Agreste won’t make his entrance for at least another half hour, hiding in an office he set up away from the main ballroom, though Nathalie is down on the floor, keeping investors comfortable and complacent.

Adrien hides in a backroom, putting off his appearance for as long as possible. He’s pacing the floor, shoes scuffing against the tiles in an act of mild rebellion—the equivalent of drawing a mustache on a photo of a celebrity—when his phone buzzes and he startles. 

myladybug: I’m here  
What do I do? Where should I go?

Adrien’s fingers are a flurry of movement as he responds, typing faster than he ever has before.

Adrien Agreste ✓: Tell security you’re here as a “lucky charm”  
They’ll know what it means  
I’ll meet you in the ballroom when you get inside  
And Miss Ladybug?

myladybug: Yes?

Adrien Agreste ✓: I’m looking forward to meeting you

* * *

Marinette is grateful for the mask covering a third of her face, but she wishes it were less conspicuous. As soon as she steps inside the ballroom, taking in the high ceilings and intricate detailing along the walls, there are people coming up to her, inquiring about her appearance.

“So you must be Ladybug.” A tall man says in a smooth and low voice. There’s a woman next to him looking at her curiously, like she’s an animal at the zoo. “What an honor to have you at this event.”

“Indeed.” The woman says. “We all thought you wouldn’t come.”

Marinette shifts on her feet, already uncomfortable with the attention. “I gave my word.”

“Yes, well, seeing as your identity remains a secret,” he says, looking pointedly at her mask, “you could have bowed out without any consequences.”

“Exactly.” The woman nods with exaggerated sympathy. “It’s what we’ve come to expect from the resistance, you see.”

“A pity,” he shakes his head. “And to think someone as talented as yourself aligns with such an...unsophisticated crowd.”

Marinette’s hands tighten into fists behind her back. She expected as much from such a wealthy group of people, but that doesn’t ease the fire in the pit of her stomach.

“An unsophisticated crowd capable of delaying the enforcement of the implant across several disciplines for years,” Marinette says, keeping her shoulders back and head high. “Maybe  _ Akuma Designs _ should spend more time thinking about their unsophisticated opponents then.”

The woman looks like she just took a bite of a lemon when she responds, “Yes, maybe.”

Done with the conversation, Marinette looks for her way out. “If you’d please excuse me, I have someone I need to find.”

She leaves before they have the opportunity to express their disapproval and cuts through the room, sidestepping groups of people to find a small table in the corner. 

She just wants a moment to breathe, a second to plan how she’ll survive the night, when another haughty voice steals her attention.

“Ladybug, I presume?” The woman is tall and lean, dark hair tied neatly in a low bun.

Marinette lifts herself to her full height, only coming up to the woman’s eyebrows. “Yes. To what do I owe the honor?”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she sticks out her hand. “Nathalie Sancoeur, assistant to Gabriel Agreste, founder and CEO.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Marinette keeps the handshake firm but short, immediately pulling her arms back behind her body.

“I have some people who would like to speak with you, if you could spare a moment.”

“I’m actually looking for M. Agreste’s son—”

“He isn’t here yet,” Nathalie cuts her off, already taking steps in the opposite direction. “He’ll arrive later in the evening.”

Marinette shakes her head, staying rooted in her spot. “He told me he’d find me as soon as I came in.”

“He’s a very busy man, Ladybug.” Nathalie clicks her tongue. “I’ll take you to him when he arrives, is that acceptable?”

She hesitates, not keen on following Gabriel Agreste’s assistant of all people, but recognizing it as the opportunity she was hoping for.

“Of course.”

Being touted around like a spectacle is not Marinette’s idea of a fulfilling experience. 

She’s subjected to criticisms masked as “simple suggestions” and “helpful advice,” critiqued on every aspect of the resistance movement, and offered false praises by those who are “so amazed by her bravery” and are “humbled to see a girl going after what she believes in.” They’re useless platitudes designed to remind her she’s inferior, that her movement is weak compared to an international corporation.

Before she can ever ask questions or erode their own fragile beliefs, Nathalie whisks her away to the next group, like she’s a shiny new toy for everyone to play with.

Marinette’s skin crawls. They look at her like she’s a puppy—cute. but nothing more than a pet, entertainment for the elite. It makes her stomach flip and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she’ll regret. 

By the time the third person says, “But you can’t genuinely believe the resistance will have a long lasting impact,” Marinette is clenching her fingers behind her back so hard, she’s afraid she’ll draw blood, and the last thing she expects is the calming voice of Adrien Agreste to sound from behind her.

“Pardon my interruption,” he says with a charming lilt to his lips, “but may I steal Miss Ladybug here for a moment?”

* * *

When Adrien steps into the ballroom, his eyes are immediately drawn to Ladybug. An air of confidence and composure shrouds her—impenetrable and elegant—and he’s off in her direction, a moth to a flame. 

He’s so close to her, so close to finally meeting her, when a businessman he vaguely recognizes stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Adrien! So good to see you, I’d like to have a word about the new implant.”

He’s tossed from investor to investor, all with the same line of questions, the same tight smiles and insincere pleasantries, the same vacant eyes. His own patience wears thin as he briefly glimpses a red dress and midnight hair every time he’s pulled in a new direction, seeing the way she holds herself high even as she’s flung to the sharks. He can tell by her fingers flexing behind her back and the rhythmic clenching of her jaw that it’s torturous, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t leave. He catches bits of her conversations, hears the integrity in every word she speaks, notices she never lets her values slip for ease of conversation. She claws her way to higher ground, never slipping.

Given the slightest opening, he’s gone in an instant. 

He’s at her side so quickly, they don’t have time to pull him back in, to suck him back into the ground like quicksand. And when he finally has her attention, those endlessly blue eyes pulling him into their depths, he goes happily.

“Of course, Adrien,” Nathalie responds to his request, gesturing to each investor in the small gathering. “We’re about done here, yes?”

“I’d actually like to get the answer from Miss Ladybug, if you don’t mind.”

Nathalie schools her face easily but not before Adrien notes the stunned slackening of her features for the briefest of moments. 

“You may,” Ladybug says, quiet enough he wants to lean in so he doesn’t miss a word, but with an authority he can’t help but trust. “Just Ladybug is fine.”

They walk to the edge of the dance floor, Ladybug’s skirt brushing his pants in a steady  _ swish _ .

Adrien stops and pools his courage before holding out a hand to her. “Might I convince you to dance?”

She raises a dark eyebrow at him, her mask shifting along with it. “A bit formal, M. Agreste.”

“Please call me Adrien,” he shudders, outstretched arm bouncing along with him. “M. Agreste is my father.”

She eyes him critically as if analyzing his every move. He tries to remain poised, but he knows there’s a bead of sweat traveling down the back of his neck, betraying his nerves. 

“Okay.” Her hand is small but certain in his own, the barest touch of skin-on-skin setting his arm ablace, a tingling spreading throughout his body like the warming numb of alcohol.

“Have you ever danced before?” he asks, leading her out onto the floor, amidst other practiced movements and stiff bodies. 

“I have, but,” she scrunches her nose at the simple steps and lifeless motions surrounding them, lacking motivation and passion “definitely not like this.”

He gently places a hand on the side of her waist, his pulse jumping at hers settling on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve danced before, but only with others of the resistance.”

They move slowly, without purpose or rhythm. A simple shuffle from side-to-side that keeps them out of anybody’s way but doesn't distract them from the conversation. 

“Is dancing really all that different between the implanted and not?” he tries to laugh. “It’s all just practiced moves, what does  _ Akuma _ have to do with it?”

Ladybug tilts her head at him, biting her lower lip. He can’t look away. 

“Dancing is all about emotion. Or, at least, the dancing I know is.” She turns her head to look at the wealthy dancers around them. “Like, look at them.” She nods to a specific couple. “What emotion do you see in their movements? What do they make you feel?”

He eyes them critically. Truthfully, all he feels is nothing from them. “Contentment,” he finally says.

“And what about the group next to them? What do they feel?”

“The same.”

“And the one over in the far corner. The woman in the green dress, what does she feel?”

He sighs. “I get it, they’re all the same. All contentment and nothing else.”

“Exactly,” she nods, satisfied.

“But what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with contentment?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.” She taps a finger against his shoulder. “You decided that all on your own.” 

He shakes his head. “Maybe you didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear. Why isn’t that enough for dancing?”

“It can be enough sometimes,” she concedes. “But what about dancing out of passion? Out of pure joy and elation? What about dancing with a love so strong the ground vibrates with the emotion?”

He sways her to the side, avoiding a waiter on the outskirts of the floor. “They can’t.”

“Because they can’t feel those emotions.”

“Yes,” he nods in agreement. “But you’re not telling the full story. What about dancing out of grief? Out of anger? Out of a despair so strong it might pull you apart?”

“There are dances for those too. Beautiful ones.”

“And you think that’s healthy?” He guides her through a slow spin under his arm. “That people should have to suffer for expression? That we should all be miserable or hurting just to create something valuable?”

“Of course not,” her eyes flicker with ferocity. “But pain isn’t something to avoid indefinitely. It’s not something to rob humanity of, to force compliance. It’s innate—unrefined.”

He scoffs. “Just because something’s natural doesn’t mean it’s good.”

“I never said it was.”

“Then what is your argument? That we shouldn’t control our emotions if we have the technology? That we should let the pain and the rage and the hopelessness of love run unchecked until we’re buried beneath them? When we have the means of preventing it? When we can make ourselves better?”

“Ah, I get it now.” She looks away from him, rolling her eyes as she bites her tongue and patting him patronizingly on his shoulder. “I have to say, you had me fooled. You’re a better actor than I gave you credit for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It always comes back to this. You think you’re better than the rest of us. That the implant makes you superior. You can keep your calm because you have nothing to lose—nothing to _ feel _ —while the rest of us fight for our lives.”

He hates the small part of him that knows she’s right. The part of him that wonders why he can feel so much more than he should, the part of him that’s drowning in self-loathing. “That’s not—I don’t think that at  _ all _ .”

“What are you so afraid of, Adrien?” She slides the hand clutched in his up his forearm, pressing into the spot of his scar. “That you’re human like the rest of us, weak?”

He stops the slow dance, but his hands don’t drop from her. “I’m not afraid of anything,” he clenches his jaw, trying to convince himself as much as her.

“Because of this?” She traces the raised skin she can feel like tiny mountains through his dress shirt. “It doesn’t make you strong. Emotions don’t make you weak.”

“Then what do they make me?” He’s almost panicked in his question, desperate for an answer that makes sense, that will tell him who he is. 

Her smile is sincere, but laced with an edge—like she can see into his mind, pull out the scared child trembling beneath.   
  
“Alive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @jattendschaton


End file.
